Lee Dunn

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

The thin cat thinks

All bony and moany, on hollow stilts he walks, stumbling to a slow pause. With dimming lamps he scans the dumbness of air, then cries at the memory of the hunt. The plates of his shoulders stretch his sparse skin, and pepper spots remember lost whiskers.

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A white thing

2:43 a.m. and I get up to pee. There’s only the night light, knee height. I shuffle arthritic, steady the wall, when a white thing bumps my eye like a drifting balloon. In a hissed whisper, “bitch” it says, imploding its albumen, stifling my breath. I don’t have to pee any more.

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The motions

I am left-leaning, by dint of bones. In love with the art of the cat and his season of the witch. In the morning shower, in coveralls of numb, I cook up paeans to the nebulous You.

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a plan

Coffee in the quiet warmth of morning. Birdsong ‘neath a cloud’s tilted anvil, and the way they paint their paths to a landing. Soft intrusions of fly feet and the clack of a late beetle. The imprisoned cat, with his round lamps and cobra sway. Later, I will buy boxes of band-aids.

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